One Kiss From You
by Cherchie
Summary: Suspended.


Hello and welcome all readers! I know how urgent it is for you to read the story, but there is something I wish to say. Disclaimer will always be and always shall: The characters of Gundam Wing/AC are not mine and shall never be mine. Another thing is, this whole story shall be finished before summer vacation ends. That will be my deadline. One last thing, if anyone is a perfectionist for spelling, please inform me to the words that have been misspelled(sp?) incorrectly so that I could fix it. Why don't I fix it myself, you ask? I do not have Microsoft Word in Windows XP Dell computer so I also don't have Spell Check. Plus, when I look at the whole tumult of words I created in here, it gets me sort of dizzy. It would be very much helpful if you can write down the words in your review/comment after you read each chapter so that I could fix the errors I had made, accidentally of course. Future chapters will gradually have fewer errors by then. Please enjoy the story and after you are done, I would be very greatful if you would click the button that says submit review. Thank you for your patience and read on  
  
Also, I am so sorry to interrupt you but, the words in (parentheses), maybe you can help me, if you can tell me the real facts of what is written in the ( ). It would help me tremondously. Onward with the story -  
  
========================================================================  
  
The coach belonging to the duchess of Mirdus pulled up to the tall house on Berkeley Square, and an imposter stepped out. The imposter's long, sturdy traveling cloak covered plain, dark, modest traveling clothes. Like the duchess, she was tall and well-rounded, and she spoke with the duchess's aristocratic accent. Also like the duchess, she wore her (color) hair smoothed back from her face. Yet for the discerning eye, the differences were obvious. The imposter had a sweeter, rounder face, dominated by large violet eyes striking in their serenity. Her voice was husky, warm, rich. Her hands rested calmly at her waist, and she moved with serene grace, not at all with the brisk certainty of the duchess. She was slow to smile, slow to frown, and never laughed with glorious freedom. Indeed, she seemed to weigh each emotion before allowing it egress, as if sometime in the past every drop of impulsiveness had been choked from her. It wasn't that she was morose, but she was observant, composed, and far too quiet.  
  
Yes, a knowledgeable person would recognize the differences between the duchess and the imposter. Fortunately for Miss Duo Quarte Maxwell de Winner no such person was in London at that moment, with the exception of her groom, her coachmen and footmen, and they were all devoted to her cousin, the real duchess, and to Duo, the duchess's companion.  
  
They would never betray Duo's mission.  
  
They would never tell Mr. Heero Knight the truth.  
  
Duo's heart sank as Mr. Heero Knight's stern-faced butler made the announcement into the large, echoing goyer. "Her Grace, the duchess of Mirdus."  
  
To hear herself presented in such a formal manner made her want to glance about for her cousin. If only Quatre were here! If only she hadn't turned aside from this mission for a more important task! If only Duo hadn't agreed to impersonate her.  
  
At the far end of the room, a liveried footman bowed, then disappeared into an open doorway. He was gone only a moment, then returned and inclined his head to the butler. The butler turned to Duo and intoned, "The master is busy, but he will receive you soon. In the meantime ma'am, I'm Victor. May I take your cloak and bonnet?" Although noon had passed, the mists outside subdued the sunlight into a wash of gray. The light of the candles couldn't illuminate the dark corners of Mr. Knight's enormous entry, an entry built to communicate, in the surest way possible, the owner's wealth.  
  
Duo's nostrils quivered with scorn. Victor jumped a little, as if anticipating her ripping at him as a substitute  
  
for his master. Of course Mr. Knight would take this house; he wanted everyone to know he was rolling in riches. He was, after all, nothing more than an upstart American who dreamed of marrying a title. Yet the entry was decorated with velvet draperies of evergreen and gold, and with a profusion of cut glass and beveled mirrors in marvelous good taste. Duo comforted herself with the thought that Mr. Knight had bought it in this condition and was even now planning to gut it and install gilt in the Chinese fashion, a style fully as vulgar as, Eleanor's mouth quirked with humor, as vulgar as was adorned by the Prince of Wales himself.  
  
Victor watched her much too closely. Because he thought she was the duchess? Or because his master had so instructed him? She removed her bonnet, stripped off her gloves, and placed them in the dark bonnet, and handed them to the butler without a trace of outer trepidation. After all, what was the point of showing trepidation? It would merely be another proof that, although Duo had traveled across war-torn Europe as the duchess's companion, she hadn't acquired the nerve and confidence that characterized Quatre's every move. This wasn't from lack of trials; the two women had faced trials aplenty.  
  
It was because, Duo sighed as she allowed the butler to take her cloak, Duo was born timid. She never remembered a time when her father's shouting hadn't paralyzed her with fright, or when her stepmother's narrow-eyed glare hadn't had the power to turn her into a bowl og quivering blancmange. Which is why Duo cultivated a serene facade, she might be a coward, but she saw no reason to announce the fact.  
  
"If you would follow me, Your Grace, to the large drawing room, I will order refreshments," Victor said. "You must be tired after your long journey." "Not so long." Duo followed him through the tall door off to the left. "I stayed at the Red Robin Inn last night and spent only four hours on the road this morning." The butler's impassivity slipped, and for a moment and expression of horror crossed his counternance. "Your Grace, if I might make a suggestion. When dealing with Mr. Knight, it's best not to tell him that you failed to obey his instructions with all speed." Turning from her contemplation of the elegantly appointed room, she raised her eyebrows in haughty imitation of her cousin and gazed at the butler in a frigid silence. It must have worked, for Victor bowed. "Your pardon, Your Grace. I'll send for tea." "Thank you," Duo said with composure. "And more substantial refreshments, also." For she suspected Mr. Knight intended to keep her waiting, and it had been five hours since breakfast. Victor left Duo to scrutinize her grandiose prison.  
  
Tall windows let in the timid sunlight, and the candles washed the walls with a pleasant golden glow. Books lined one wall, reaching all the way to the twelve-foot ceiling, and the furniture was stylishly striped in an austere pattern of crimson and cream. The Oriental rug was crystal blue and crimson flowers on a cream background, and crimson roses nodded in the tall blue-and-white Oriental vases. The scent of leather bindings, fresh carnations, and oiled wood blended to create a familiar smell, a smell that seemed to Duo to be uniquely British. This room had been created to put a guest at ease. Duo would not relax. Such a lack of vigilance could not be wise, and in truth, when she thought about meeting Mr. Knight, her stomach twisted into knots. But neither would she dance to Mr. Knight's tune. He no doubt imagined she would grow more anxious the longer she waited.  
  
Well, she would, but he would never know. With every appearance of airiness, she wandered to the bookshelves and examined the titles. She found the Iliad and the Odyssey, and sniffed in disdain. Mr. Yuy was a barbarian from the Colonies and therefore unschooled. Probably the former owner had left the books. Or perhaps Mr. Yuy had acquired the books so he could sniff the richness of their bindings. Yet a worn title caught her eye, a book by Daniel Defoe. Robinson Crusoe was an old friend, and she reached up, trying to pull it down off the shelf just over her head. She couldn't quite touch the spine and, glancing about, she found a library stool. Dragging it over, she took the long step up and in triumph retrieved the book.  
  
This book had been read, and read again, for it fell easily to the page where Robinson found Friday. That was Duo's favorite part also, and she couldn't resist reading the first few lines. And the next few lines. And the next, and the next. She didn't know what dragged her from the lonely island where Robinson survived and despaired. She heard nothing but experienced a sensation that prickled along her spine like a warm touch caressing her skin. Slowly with the care of prey beneath a predator's survey, she turned her head, and met the gaze of the elegant gentleman lounging at the door. In her travels, she had seen many a stirking and charming man, but none had been as handsome as this, and all had been more charming. This man was a stature in stark black and white, when from rugged granite and adolescent dreams. HIs face wasn't really handsome; his nose was thing and crooked, his eyes heavy lidded, his cheekbones broad, stark and hollowed. But he wielded a quality of power, of toughness, that made Duo want to huddle into a shivering, cowardly little ball. Then he smiled, and she caught her breath in awe. His mouth ... his glorious, sensual mouth. His lips were wide, too wide, and broad, too broad. His teeth were  
  
white, clean, strong as a wolf's. He looked like a man seldom amused by life, but he was amused by her, and she realized in a rush of mortification that she remained standing on the stool, reading one of his books and lost to the grave realities of her situation. The reality that states she was an imposter, sent to mollify this man until the real duchess could arrive.  
  
Mollify? Him? Not likely. Nothing would mollify him. Nothing except ... well, whatever it was he wanted. And she wasn't fool enough to think she knew what that was.  
  
The immediate reality was that she would somehow have to step down onto the floor and of necessity expose her ankles to his gaze. It wasn't as if he wouldn't look. He was looking now, observing her figure with an appreciation all the more impressive for its subtlety. His gaze flicked along her spine, along her backside, and down her legs with such concentration that she formed the impression he knew very well what she looked like clad only in her chemise, and that was an unnerving sensation. Well. She couldn't keep staring at him. She snapped the book shut. In a tone she hoped sounded serene, she said, "Mr. Knight, I was indulging myself in your formidable library." Very calm. Immensely civilized. She waved a hand along the wall. "You have a great many titles." Inane. Still he said nothing. He failed to respond to her conversational gambit by word or gesture. HIs silence made her lift one shoulder defensively. If he was trying to intimidate her, he was doing a first-rate job. Just when she was going to say something else, she didn't know what, but something that would crush this beast and his pretensions, he started forward. At once she realized she had named him correctly. He was a beast. He moved  
  
like a panter on the prowl, all smooth and leggy, and he prowled toward her. The closer he got, the bigger he seemed, tall and broad at the shoulder. He seemed an element of nature, a rugged mountain, a powerful sea, or a beast, a huge, ruthless beast who kept his claws hidden until he chose to use them. In a moment of panic, the imposter thought, 'My God, Quatre, what have you let me in for?'  
  
Then he was beside her. Duo looked down into his face, framed with hair so pale it looke like a halo around his rugged, tanned features, and wondered if he would use those claws on her now.  
  
Slowly, he reached up and wrapped his big hands around her waist. The touch was like the heat of a fire after a long bout of winter. No man ever toucher her. Certainly not a beast of such epic proportions, a man of ruthlessness who imagined he could buy into the tight-knit heights of English society. Yet he did touch her, pressing his hands into her flesh as if measuring her for fit, and from his expression, he found the fit acceptable. More than acceptable, enjoyable.  
  
And she . . . her senses absorbed him with an eagerness that left her embarrassed and gratified. She found herself breathing carefully, as if too deep a breath would cause her to spontaneously combust. The scent of him added to her discomfort. He smelled like . . . oh, like the crisp, still air at the top of the Alps. Like a cedar grove in Lebanon. Like a man who could give pleasure . . . . and how did she know that? She was as pure as the driven snow, and likely to stay that way to the end of her days.  
  
Men did not wed twenty-four-year-old companions who had no dowry and no chance for one. Tightening his grip, Mr. Knight lifted her off the stool. Incredulous, Duodropped the book. Grabbed for it. Almost overbalanced.  
  
The book landed with a thud.  
  
He tipped her body against his.  
  
Reeling and operating totally by instinct, she clutched his shoulders. Shoulders immovable and strong as a boulder in a storm. Slowly, gradually, he allowed her to slither down him, as if he were a slide and she an artless child. But she didn't feel like a child. She felt . . . she felt like a woman, confused, overwhelmed, driven by an absurd desire for a man whome she had never before seen. A man she knew to be a scoundrel of extraordinary audacity. She, who had been so careful to steer clear of those very emotions!  
  
Just before her toese touched the floor he stopped her and gazed into her face. His eyes, she saw, were a paleblue, like chips of frozen sky. The disconcerted her in their directness and lavishly complimented her without him ever saying a word. She blushed. She knew how very well her fair skin showed color, and she must be positively crimson. Embarrased, intrigued, and in more danger than she'd ever faced in her life, she tried to think what the duchess would do in this instance. But the duchess, direct, brisk and managing, would never find herself in such an iniquitous position.  
  
In the dark, smoky voice of a veteran seducer, he said, "Your Grace, welcome to my home." He let her slide down those last few inches and waited, as if to see if she would run away. Instead, she stepped back with the self-possession of the real duchess. His hands lingered on her waist before slipping away, and this time his voice contained a razor-sharp edge of menace. "I have looked forward to this day for a long, long time."  
  
========================================================================  
  
I hope this is long enough for you. If it is not, please tell me so that I shall make it longer in the future chapters.  
  
Read & Review.  
  
Pizche 


End file.
